


O Christmas Tree

by UniverseOnHerShoulders



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Drunken Shenanigans, F/M, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, whouffaldi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-11 09:37:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8974468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UniverseOnHerShoulders/pseuds/UniverseOnHerShoulders
Summary: Alone with only the Michael Bublé Christmas Special for company, Clara had resigned herself to not getting into the Christmas spirit - unless that spirit was gin. So when the Doctor turns up with a real Christmas tree for her flat, she's touched by the gesture... until six hours later, when the tree starts to warble well-known seasonal songs at maximum volume.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is my Whouffaldi Secret Santa gift for [whydontwejustflyawaysomewhere](http://whydontwejustflyawaysomewhere.tumblr.com/)! Have a very happy Christmas, I hope you enjoy this.
> 
> The premise is based on a conversation my housemate and I had that essentially consisted of "what do you reckon would be the most annoying thing a Christmas tree could do?"

It wasn’t Wednesday. 

That was Clara’s immediate thought when the TARDIS materialised neatly into the space between her coffee table and the TV, blocking Michael Bublé’s Christmas show from sight and inducing a noise from her that was half-relief and half-complaint. She took a fortifying gulp of wine, stood up, and then sat back down again as the doors opened and a Christmas tree crashed onto her coffee table, splintering the cheap wood in two and casting wine, pens and coasters across the floor alongside a slew of pine needles. 

“What the _hell_ ,” Clara muttered, offering a silent prayer of thanks for having chosen white wine over red and then poking the tree with her shoe in an apprehensive manner. It groaned, loudly and distinctly, and her eyes widened in horror. “Doctor?” she asked, leaning down and lifting it up by its tip, holding it roughly aloft and squinting at it with suspicion. “For the love of all that is holy please tell me you didn’t get turned into a Christmas tree.”

“I didn’t get turned into a Christmas tree,” he assured her, stepping out of the TARDIS with a grin and causing her to yelp in shock, the Christmas tree crashing back to the floor as she took a harried step backwards. “I got you a present.” 

“No, you got me a Christmas tree.” 

“A present, yes. Humans do presents at Christmas, don’t they? And Christmas trees? So I thought I’d kill two birds with one stone and present you with a tree. Sorry it’s not wrapped. Isn’t it nice?” 

“It _groaned._ ” 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he scoffed, rolling his eyes with derision at the mere suggestion. “It’s a _tree,_ Clara. They can’t talk, much less groan. _And_ you’ve imbibed wine. I’m sure you’re just imagining things.”

“Oh, yeah,” she snapped, sore about the loss of her coffee table. “Clara Oswald, massive pisshead, just hallucinating a groaning Christmas tree.” 

“You are rather small,” the Doctor said with a shrug, missing the sarcasm in her tone. “Can’t metabolise alcohol all that well.” 

“Piss off,” she retorted without malice, then squinted over at him in a silent appraisal. “There’s pine needles in your hair.” 

“There would be.” 

“And in your jumper.” 

“Yup.” 

“And on your… what the hell were you _doing_ to the Christmas tree?” she asked, then smirked. “Then again, it’s tall and prickly, probably just your type.” 

“Rude,” he complained, dusting himself down as he spoke. “Besides it’s not that tall.” 

“It’s taller than me.” 

“ _Everything_ is taller than you.” 

“Look, giant spaceman, you’ve turned up in my lounge on a Monday night with a Christmas tree, broken my coffee table and spilled my wine. Keep insulting me and I’ll get the TARDIS to evict you.” 

“Sorry about the table,” he muttered in concession to her irritation, the tips of his ears going red with shame. “I’ll get you a new one.” 

“No you _won’t_ ,” she said at once, holding up one finger in a warning gesture. “Remember the last thing you got me? That chair that tried to swallow me? Never again. No more alien furniture. Wait… where’s this tree from? Earth. It had better be Earth. Please for the love of god say Earth.” 

“Would it make you feel better if I said I’ve just come from Victorian England, where Prince Albert is introducing his lovely lady wife – who by the way, looks _terribly_ familiar – and family to the concept of Christmas trees?” 

“Much, yep.”

“Well I haven’t, and it’s not from Victorian England. It’s from a space market.”

“Doctor!” she groaned. “Not again!” 

“I was assured of its pedigree by the dealer. Finest Earth stock. He sold me baubles as well.” 

“I _have_ baubles.”

“But… these are pretty,” he whipped a box out of his pocket with childlike glee and opened it to reveal a collection of iridescent silver and blue baubles arranged neatly in rows. “TARDIS colours, see?” 

“You’re daft,” Clara chided, a smile creeping over her face despite her earlier irritation as her temper waned in the face of his enthusiasm. “Have you got a tree stand?” 

“Obviously.” 

“Good, go fetch, and I’ll get my tinsel and fairy lights. OK?” 

“Yes boss.” He scurried back into the TARDIS eagerly and Clara went to the hall cupboard, retrieving her box of decorations and lugging it back to the lounge with some difficulty, setting it down in the middle of the sofa before collecting up some of the detritus from the remains of her coffee table. 

The tree groaned again. 

“Doctor!” Clara called, and he emerged from the TARDIS holding aloft a tree stand with a look of triumph that seemed disproportionate to the task at hand. “It made a noise again.” 

“You’re definitely imagining things,” he reiterated, stepping into the lounge and crouching to attach the tree to the base with nimble fingers. “It’s probably just the building settling.”

“I live here.” 

“Well observed.” 

“It doesn’t _settle,_ it’s not a Victorian mansion.” 

“Well the tree definitely isn’t groaning, so stop complaining,” he instructed, standing the tree up and beaming at his accomplishment. “There!” 

She sniffed haughtily. “Fine. That looks nice.” 

“Want me to do the lights?” 

“I can manage.” 

“Clara,” he shot her a look. “I’m taller than you and already covered in pine needles. I will do the lights.”

“Don’t be so s-” 

“I am not being sexist, I’m being practical. That’s a very nice jumper. And you have a very nice face, that could do without you falling into a Christmas tree and getting all scratched.” 

“You think I have a nice face?” 

He turned a fiery shade of red and extracted the lights from their box to avoid looking at her. “I meant in terms of your narcissism.” 

“Sure you did. Do you want a cuppa while you’re doing that?” 

“Please,” he concurred, evidently glad to be back on familiar conversational ground, and she smiled, going into the kitchen and sticking the kettle on. “Six sugars.” 

“You say that like I don’t already know you take disgusting amounts of the stuff,” she called over her shoulder as she retrieved milk and the sugar jar. “Your teeth’ll rot, you know that? And it’s a rubbish thing to cause a regeneration. Manky teeth.” 

“I’ve got superior teeth.” 

“Like hell have you,” she muttered, getting out two mugs and chucking a teabag in each, before adding more loudly: “I call BS on that.” 

“You call _what_?” 

“Bullshit. Also known as ‘liar, liar, pants on fire,’” she poured water into the mugs, eyed them both until she judged the colour to be right, and then removed the teabags and added milk. “I mean that in a nice way.” 

“You’d better,” he chuckled. “You’re a bit tipsy, aren’t you?” 

“What makes you say that?” she asked, spooning sugar into his mug and wrinkling her nose at the sheer volume of the stuff. 

“You’re not usually this…” he paused, searching for the right word. “Cute.” 

“I am not cute,” she informed him tartly, bringing their mugs through into the lounge and beaming at the now-illuminated Christmas tree, then adding in a more prim tone: “I am lethal.” 

“If you say so. Ta for the tea,” he took his mug and sipped, before setting it on her sideboard to cool down. “Just how I like it.” 

“You’re not just how I like you.” 

“I beg your pardon?” 

“You’re covered in pine needles,” she clarified, trying not to blush. “And I don’t want to hug you when you’re covered in pine needles. I’ll get spiked to death.” 

He shook himself off like a dog, casting pine needles across the carpet haphazardly, then beamed at her. “Better?” 

“Much,” she agreed, setting her mug down and folding herself into his embrace. “Thank you for the tree.”

“You’re welcome.” 

“And for being tall.” 

“…you’re welcome.” 

“And for all the pine needles I’m undoubtedly covered in. Seriously, they’re _in_ your jacket.” 

“Oops,” he mumbled as she pulled away and brushed herself down. “Look, I’ll go get changed, I’ll be right back.” 

“Sounds like a plan,” she grinned up at him, reaching for her mug as he headed back into the TARDIS, humming under his breath as he went. As she took a sip, the doors slammed abruptly closed behind him and the blue box dematerialised, casting up a shower of pine needles in its wake. “For god _sake,_ ” she muttered darkly. “That bloody alien. That bloody box. What is it this time? Reconfiguring the Christmas-o-meter?”

She reached for the baubles with a sigh, knowing it could be days before he reappeared, and thus resigning herself to continuing decorating alone.

 

* * *

 

 _Hem, hem._  

Clara sat bolt upright in bed, blinking around in the darkness for the source of the polite little coughs that had woken her. 

 _Hem, hem._  

“Doctor?” she called, her heart pounding as her eyes adjusted to the lack of light. “Is that you? It’s late, come back in the morning.”

There was the distant sound of more coughing, but no words of reassurance were forthcoming. 

“Doctor? I’m not mad at you for vanishing earlier, but seriously, this isn’t funny.” 

She fumbled for her bedside light, switching it on and getting up unwillingly, reaching for her dressing gown and wrapping it around herself as protection against intruders and the cold. 

“Doctor-” 

“Deck the halls with boughs of holly, fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la,” a rich voice warbled from the direction of the lounge, and Clara took a few apprehensive steps down the hall, telling herself – in a determined attempt to bolster her courage – that this couldn’t be a burglar. Burglars didn’t sing. Not usually, at least. “Tis the season to be jolly, fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la.” 

“Doctor?” she called again, trying to sound braver than she felt. “Have you taken up singing?” 

“Don we now our gay apparel, fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la,” the voice continued at maximum volume. “Troll the ancient Yuletide carol, fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la!” 

Clara stepped into the lounge, flicking on the light and looking around her in consternation. The room was empty, exactly as she’d left it several hours ago before she went to bed.

“See the blazing Yule before us, fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la,” the voice continued, and Clara realised with a mounting sense of horror that it was coming from the direction of the Christmas tree. “Strike the harp and join the chorus, fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la.”

“Urm,” she said uncertainly, edging towards it with wide-eyed confusion and considering the best way to approach the matter. “Hello? God I feel like a prat but… are you a _singing_ Christmas tree?” 

“Yes I am, young woman, surely, fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la,” the tree warbled to the tune of _Deck The Halls._ “For your entertainment purely, fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la.” 

“Oh,” she said faintly, somewhat taken aback by this development. “That’s… lovely. Is there any way to turn you off? Only it’s late, and I’d like to go to sleep. I’ve got work in the morning.” 

“I sing for you at all hours, fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la,” the tree explained tunefully. “Come sun, snow, or even showers, fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la.”

“You weren’t singing when you arrived,” she accused, scowling at the tree with a distinctly un-Christmassy feeling of ill will. “You were nice and quiet.” 

“Drugged, I was, to fool your lover, fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la,” the tree continued. “Now I’m back to my full colour, fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la.” 

“Bloody great,” Clara muttered under her breath, turning on her heel to leave before looking back at the Christmas tree with a dark look as she realised what it had said. “And he’s not my lover. He’s a _friend_. A weird space alien friend. OK?” 

“As you say so, I’ll believe you, fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la,” the tree retorted. “But we both know it is not true, fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la.”

“Oh, sod you,” Clara snapped, heading back to bed and pulling the duvet over her head in an attempt to block out the noise. She made a mental note to buy some noise cancelling headphones if the situation did not improve. “I’m going to _kill_ him.”

 

* * *

 

Clara awoke the next morning to the dulcet sounds of _O Christmas Tree_ filtering into her bedroom from the lounge. It would have been pleasant, had she not been woken up several times in the night by the tree’s extreme key changes. 

“Oi,” she called, in the vague direction of the tree. “Isn’t this a bit… I dunno, meta? Singing about trees? You know, as you are one?”

“O human girl, o human girl, thy words are most abrasive,” sang the tree in a distinctly snide tone. “O human girl, o human girl, thy words are most abrasive. O human girl, o human girl, bitter because he’s not here! O human girl, o human girl, thy words are most abrasive.” 

“Change the bloody record, will you? I’m not shagging him. Knock it off.”

“The human and the Time Lord, they are both so in love. Of all the ones that are on the Earth, these two do rise above.” 

She groaned and buried her face in her pillow. “Shut _up_ ,” she begged, sounding a touch more desperate than she would have liked. “Really, shut up.” 

“O, the one with silver hair, and the one who is most round-”

Clara rolled out of bed and padded into the bathroom, turning on the shower and getting in, enjoying the momentary peace and quiet. “A singing Christmas tree. Of course he’d get me a bloody _singing_ Christmas tree. I’m going to kill him. I swear to god.” 

She reached for her shampoo, and then noticed that there was an orb levitating in mid-air in front of her, suspended at waist-height and pulsing softly with light. She swore under her breath, then leaned forward for a closer look, poking it with a fingertip and watching it bob up and down in the steam. 

“Are you… a _bauble?_ ” she realised after a moment to gather her thoughts. “One of the baubles _he_ bought me?” 

“Yes indeed, I am a bauble, fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la,” the bauble trilled in a high-pitched voice. “So your spirit does not wobble, fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la.” 

“My _spirit_?” Clara asked, before abruptly realising she was naked in front of a potentially sentient Christmas bauble and pulling the shower curtain around herself in an attempt at preserving her dignity. “What do you mean? _And_ that didn’t rhyme.” 

“I will keep you feeling festive, fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la,” it explained, before continuing in determined rhyming form: “Of Christmas I am suggestive, fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la.” 

“Great,” Clara muttered, throwing caution to the wind and letting go of the shower curtain, picking up her shampoo and continuing her shower. “Well, you, urm… you carry on being suggestive.” 

Thus the bauble launched into an enthusiastic rendition of _Good King Wenceslas_ that seemed interminable as it was echoed off the bathroom tiles _._ By the time Clara stepped out of the shower, it had moved on to _O Come All Ye Faithful,_ and she looked forward to returning to the relative tranquillity of her bedroom unaccompanied by its shrill harmonising. As she padded down the corridor, however, the bauble followed her, bobbing along in her wake like a pet animal would, and singing all the way. 

“Urm,” she said uncertainly, spinning on the spot and confronting the decoration with as much confidence as she could muster given the circumstances. “Why are you following me?” 

“Trail you I must do, trail with exultation, trail, all ye footsteps, to whe’er you go. Glory to you! Glorious this season! O come, you must adore it, o come, you must adore it, o come, you must adore it, Christmas is here.” 

“Oh, hell,” Clara groaned. “Including to work? Don’t- don’t sing, just bob up and down if it’s a yes.”

The bauble rose and fell in an approximation of a nod. 

“Right, that’s not on,” Clara decided, shaking her head emphatically, the prospect filling her with dread. “You can’t follow me to work. People will ask questions. It’ll look weird.” 

From the lounge appeared the other nineteen baubles from the set the Doctor had brought her the previous evening, rising up to float at head height in a somewhat menacing formation. 

“Oh my god,” Clara breathed, with rising panic. “I’m gonna get murdered by Christmas baubles.”

Bracing herself for an attack, Clara was pleasantly surprised when instead the baubles began to sing in harmony:

“Once in noble London city,

Stood a comprehensive school,

Where there taught an English teacher,

Who was not in fact that tall.

We will follow her to there,

Christmas spirit we shall share.” 

She began to laugh, starting to get ready as they hovered above her bed and serenaded her. When she was ready to go, she picked up her duvet and held it aloft, matador style, attempting to look more intimidating than she felt. 

“Right,” she said to herself, bouncing on the balls of her feet and focusing on the task at hand. “You’ve got one shot, Oswald. Make it count.”

With that, she threw the duvet over the floating cloud of baubles, and legged it out the front door before they could follow her.

 

* * *

 

When Clara got home, the baubles were levitating inside her front door in anticipation of her return, humming _Away in A Manger_ in perfect harmony.

“Ah,” she said, as they turned their attention to her in a mildly threatening manner. “Hello, baubles. Oh my god I’m losing it. I’m talking to inanimate floating decorations like they have feelings.” 

“Us baubles were lonely, while you were away, but you have come home now, so we are okay,” they warbled, and Clara made a face. “We love you, Miss Clara…” 

“OK, OK, please…” she held up her hands. “The humming is good. Let’s work with the humming while I wake dinner and do some marking. OK? Don’t sing, just bob.” 

The baubles drifted up and down obediently, and Clara let out a long breath. Perhaps this arrangement could work for a few more days. At least until the Doctor returned, and then she full anticipated sticking the tree and baubles into a remote, inaccessible area of the TARDIS and giving him a taste of his own medicine. 

“There,” she said, pleased with herself. “Truce.”

 

* * *

 

The carefully-brokered truce lasted until the next morning, when the baubles woke her up by bouncing repeatedly up and down on her face, humming _Hark! The Herald Angels Sing_ in an unnecessarily buoyant manner for 6:30am. 

“Whaaaaa?” Clara mumbled, sitting up and rubbing the sleep from her eyes. “Morning baubles. Nice humming. Humming is good. Humming is survivable until I get my superb new headphones.”

She rolled out of bed with a contented sigh and sat at her dresser, applying makeup with a practiced hand as the baubles levitated behind her, humming merrily and keeping to themselves. As she got up, however, they shot up to her eye level and began to rotate lazily as they reverted to singing: 

“Look, the English teacher leaves,

But it is us that she needs,

Our songs bring her festive cheer

So she cannot leave us here

We must follow where she goes

Even come the winter snows

We will serve her for all time

Our own brand of festive rhyme!

Look, the English teacher leaves,

But it is us that she needs!” 

“Oh no,” Clara said, shaking her head and beginning to get dressed. “You are not following me to work. Not a chance. We had this discussion yesterday. Remember? You don’t follow me, I let you hum?”

Strapping on her shoes, she made to leave the room and the first bauble dive bombed towards her determinedly, connecting with her shoulder and affixing itself to her jumper. A second followed, and Clara held up her satchel, taking hefty swipes at the baubles that zoomed towards her with determination, knocking them askew as she battled her way to the front door. 

“This is _unacceptable,”_ she huffed, slamming it behind her and leaning against the wood, listening to the regular _thud_ of the baubles hitting the wood on the inside. “So incredibly unacceptable. I’m going to be having words with that Time Lord. And getting a rounders bat from the PE department.”

 

* * *

 

Clara approached her front door with some trepidation, reaching into her handbag for the wooden bat that she had stolen from the PE department in her lunch break. Pulling it out and gripping it tightly in one hand, she took out her house keys and inserted them in the lock just as a hand grabbed at her shoulder, and she spun on the spot, reflexively smashing the bat into the owner of the offending hand. 

“For the love of Rassilon,” the Doctor wheezed, doubling over while clutching his stomach in pain, and Clara felt guilt burn through her. “Why in _hell’s name_ do you have a baseball bat?” 

“Shit,” Clara mumbled, crouching beside him and prizing his hands away from his stomach, probing the taught muscles through his jumper in an attempt to ascertain the damage. “You idiot, why did you just grab me?!” 

“I reiterate,” he managed, coughing in a chagrined manner. “Why do you have a baseball bat?” 

“It’s a rounders bat,” she said defensively, tapping it against her thigh and reaching for her keys, turning them and taking a deep breath. “This is why.” 

The second the door opened, the baubles floated out onto her landing, humming _Ding Dong Merrily on High_ at maximum volume, and the Doctor looked around at them in awe, his pain momentarily forgotten about. 

“These are _fabulous_!” he enthused, poking one with a fingertip in wonder. “Look at them!”

“Yeah, I’m looking,” Clara groused, pushing him into her flat and ensuring the cloud of decorations had followed them before closing the door. “And hearing them. At all hours. Not fun. You absolute arse, why did you buy me singing Christmas decorations?” 

“I didn’t know they sung,” he said in self-defence, adopting a wounded expression. “That’s a new one on me.” 

“The tree sings as well,” she accused. “So when I said it groaned, I wasn’t joking.” 

“Ah,” he said apologetically. “I should’ve noticed…” 

“Noticed _what_?” 

“It’s a Singing Tree of Edensor. The baubles are its fruit.” 

“They’re definitely baubles.” 

“Let’s not argue semantics. They’re grown primarily for economic gain; they’re exported across the solar system by traders at Christmastime. They’re incredibly valuable, I really don’t see why the market trader downplayed that, he could’ve got a much higher price from me if he’d told me what the tree was.” 

“The tree said that it had been drugged,” Clara informed him, then made a face. “That’s not something I thought I’d ever say. Where did _you_ go, anyway?” 

“TARDIS’s geoproximal sensors malfunctioned. Got stuck on Venus for a week or so. Nothing too major.” 

“Well, why didn’t you just park in here, instead of out there? Then I wouldn’t have hit you.” 

“You get weird sometimes if I do that.” 

“I got weird _once,_ and it was because you went through my laundry bin looking for nargles. Which aren’t _real._ I keep telling you that.” 

“JK Rowling got the idea from somewhere. That’s all I’m saying.” 

“You’re an idiot. Do you want a cup of tea? Mince pie? That sort of thing?” 

“Urm,” he looked up at her with a plaintive expression, and she felt her heart melt. “You know, it really did hurt when you clobbered me with that rounders bat.” 

“Shit,” she cursed, pushing him down onto the sofa and rolling up his jumper but finding more layers of clothing underneath. “Can’t see anything. Take that jumper off and I’ll get some ice.” 

“Urm,” he repeated, more uncertainly now that he was faced with potential – albeit partial – nudity. “I was only going to ask for a medicinal brandy, you know.” 

“Brandy?” Clara raised an eyebrow in surprise. “What are you, my dad?” 

“Well if you don’t have any…” the Doctor muttered crossly. “Forget it.” 

“No, no, no. I do. Sit down, I’ll get you a brandy. Strip first, brandy later. Got it?” she gave him the kind of look he understood to mean _no arguments_ and departed to the kitchen, rummaging through her cupboards in search of the bottle of brandy she kept for her father’s visits. Eventually finding it, she dusted it off and returned to the lounge with it and a plastic tumbler, setting both down on the makeshift coffee table she had fashioned the night before. She turned her attention to the Doctor, dressed now in only his undershirt and plaid trousers, grimacing in pain as he fidgeted on the sofa. 

“Nice glass,” he teased, for want of anything else to say. “Very… me.” 

“Yep,” she said confidently, pouring him out a measure and handing it over. “Plastic. Unbreakable. That doesn’t mean _try_ ,” she added in haste. “Please. Just stay there while I get ice.” 

“Will do,” he acquiesced, taking a sip of the brandy and leaning back against the sofa cushions. “Boss.” 

She smiled then, her mouth turning up at the corner as she went back to the kitchen and rooted through her freezer, eventually settling on a bag of frozen peas in lieu of any ice, wrapping it in a mostly-clean tea towel and taking the end product back to the lounge. 

“Right,” she said, plonking down beside the Doctor and reaching for the hem of his undershirt with a forced air of confidence. “Shirt up, or you won’t feel the benefit.” 

“Nope,” the Doctor said at once, trying to squirm away. “Not doing… not exposing myself. Nope, nope, nope.”

“It’s _just_ your torso,” Clara told him pointedly, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. “Nothing I haven’t seen before.” 

“But… but…” his hands clenched into worried fists, and he cast his gaze down to his lap. “My modesty.” 

“You don’t have boobs. Don’t even think about mentioning modesty in relation to your socially-acceptable man nipples. Top up, and then you can have some more brandy while I ice your chest.”

“ _Fine,”_ he muttered in a bitter tone, and rolled the thin cotton up to his breastbone, flinching as Clara pressed the makeshift ice pack to his skin. “Are they _peas_?” 

“Didn’t have any ice.” 

“Oh.” 

“Yeah, oh. Does it hurt a lot? I’m really sorry about walloping you in the stomach. My bad, and all that.” 

“S’fine,” he mumbled, placing one hand over hers on the makeshift ice pack. “Feeling better now you’re touching it.” 

“Wait, what?” she asked, looking up at him in surprise, and he blinked a couple of times in consternation.

“With the ice pack,” he clarified, blushing delicately and having another sip of his brandy to allay the awkwardness. “Obviously.” 

“Right.” 

There was a prolonged silence, and then the Christmas tree launched into an enthusiastic version of _Santa Baby._

“Jesus wept,” Clara muttered, reaching for the bottle of brandy and taking a swig in an attempt to raise her tolerance levels. “It’s started doing this. I apologise.”

“Doing what?” he asked curiously, tilting his head to the side in confusion and taking another sip from his glass as he hummed a few bars. “Singing? I thought the problem was that it was doing that already.” 

“No,” Clara turned a violent shade of red as she realised she would have to explain. “Singing… suggestive stuff. And stuff about us.” 

“This song is suggestive?” 

“Think of all the fun I’ve missed,” Clara began, in time with the tree, looking away from the Doctor and growing in confidence a little as she went on. “Think of all the fellas that I haven’t kissed. Next year I could be also good, if you’ll check off my Christmas list.” 

The Doctor beamed at her in surprise. “You’re not a bad singer!”

“Thanks… I think,” she turned a darker shade of red and took another swig of brandy to fortify herself. “See my point?” 

“Nah,” the Doctor said with wide-eyed innocence, already under the influence of the brandy, smiling up at her with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “I think you need to carry on.” 

“But… oh, sod it, you asked for this,” she muttered, getting to her feet and taking a last swig of brandy before she took off her cardigan and cast it aside, noting the Doctor’s raised eyebrows. “What?” she asked with an equally innocent smile. “Dancing makes you sweaty.” 

“Sure it does.” 

“Do you want me to sing or not?” 

“Yes, Miss Oswald. I’ll be good, Miss Oswald.” 

“Or don’t be,” she winked at him, the alcohol starting to cloud her judgement, and she cringed internally before throwing caution to the wind and starting to sing again, one hip rising and falling in approximate time to the music. “Santa cutie, there's one thing I really do need, the deed to a platinum mine. Santa cutie, and hurry down the chimney tonight.” 

The Doctor smirked at her encouragingly and took another gulp of his brandy, and she widened her eyes, attempting an innocent look as she unbuttoned the top button of her blouse, determined to see how far she could push him before he regained his composure and put an end to her flirting with him. 

“Santa baby, and fill my stocking with a duplex and checks. Sign your 'x' on the line. Santa baby, and hurry down the chimney tonight.” 

She undid another couple of buttons and pouted down at the tipsy Time Lord on her sofa, before continuing with a smile: “Come and trim my Christmas tree with some decorations bought at Tiffany. I really do believe in you, let's see if you believe in me.” 

She kicked off her shoes and sank down onto his lap, surprised but pleased by his lack of complaint and leaning down to sing in his ear: “Santa baby, forgot to mention one little thing, a ring… I don't mean on the phone…” 

Her breath caught as she felt his hands reach up, quite unexpectedly, to undo her remaining buttons and slip her blouse from her shoulders, before coming to rest on her waist as she looked directly into his eyes and finished: “Santa baby, and hurry down the chimney tonight...” 

“Clara?” he said after a moment’s silence, in a slightly strangled tone, half-regaining his sense of decorum. “I see your point. And…” 

“And…?” she asked, watching him attempt to covertly look down her cleavage and feeling a flush of self-satisfaction that he hadn’t tipped her off his lap yet. “Yes?” 

“It might be the brandy talking, but if the rounders bat didn’t kill me, I think your boobs might. No complaints, mind. They’d be a great way to regenerate. Also the singing tree is a surprising aphrodisiac. Ten out of ten, definitely approve of this entire thing.” 

“Oh Doctor,” Clara smirked, getting to her feet and holding out her hand to him invitingly, chancing the somewhat corny line: “Want to come and hurry down my chimney?” 

“Well,” he sighed, standing up before crashing her lips to hers in a hurried kiss and then tugging her towards her bedroom with a laugh. “It _is_ cold outside…”


End file.
